


What People Do

by exbex



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-07
Updated: 2011-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-27 00:54:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/289794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exbex/pseuds/exbex





	What People Do

These days Sherlock is less bored. Moriarty takes up more time in his thoughts than is healthy, but since he has John Watson as competition, things balance themselves out.  
Sherlock really has John to thank for this current state, since it’s because of John that he’s more occupied. He’s taken on the duller tasks of less interesting cases and even menial things like tidying the flat, doing the shopping and learning to cook. John, for whatever reason, seems to care about a cleaner space and Sherlock eating once in a while, and now that John has only to concentrate on helping Sherlock with cases and working at the surgery, he’s less tired at the end of the day, which, Sherlock will admit, is worthwhile in itself, but it also leaves John with considerably more energy for shagging.  
This is apparently what people do, completing tasks in order to care for their lovers and spending disturbingly lengthy amounts of time fantasizing about shagging their lovers when they’re not actually shagging their lovers. It’s problematic for Sherlock, even now. Sex and relationships produce a certain cognitive dissonance within him, a frustration because he can’t quite figure out why producing a certain variety of looks on John’s face (there’s about four of them that he finds especially pleasing) matters so much.  
Most people would probably have a simple answer for Sherlock, but simple answers don’t satisfy him.  
**  
When John trudges home from what Sherlock quickly deduces has been a particularly strenuous day at the surgery and allows himself to fall face down on the sofa, Sherlock pulls John’s cardigan down so that his hands are trapped behind him, tangled in fabric. He then straddles him, and begins to knead slow circles in John’s back.  
“Sherlock, that’s fantastic,” John’s muffled groans send a pleasurable feeling through Sherlock. It’s another bit of mystery. Sherlock has always known, obviously, that the physical sensations of sex, the touch of another body, are enjoyable, it’s all the distracting emotions that puzzle him.  
**  
Sherlock doesn’t really know why he wants to compliment John on his observations, his courage, his obvious intelligence and skills. He doesn’t know why he wants to tell John that he’s proud of him, because he can’t figure out why it matters. Anyway, it’s easier to point out John’s shortcomings and try to fix them, much like the psychosomatic limp, which is why he wraps his arms around John one evening and pulls him down into a chair in front of John’s laptop to teach him how to type.  
“How did you make it through university and medical school?”  
“My hard drive was full of, you know, medical things,” John replies wryly. But he obliges to a lesson nevertheless.  
You’re a good doctor, Sherlock wants to tell him, but doesn’t. He’s distracted by the striped jumper that John is wearing (illogical, but there’s something pleasing about the way it fits John) and the smell of his skin and hair. He buries his nose in John’s neck and breathes. “Is this what people do?” he mumbles.  
“Yes, Sherlock, this is what people do.”  
“Why?”  
“Because…they feel lucky when they have someone who could do better.” John says it with a barely perceptible sigh, and it takes a moment for Sherlock to deduce that John is complimenting him, that John is the one who feels lucky. It’s another puzzle; luck has nothing to do with it, and there’s something unsettling about the fact that John apparently doesn’t know this.  
“You’re the bravest man I know, John.” Sherlock doesn’t know why it’s easy to say.  
John huffs out an incredulous laugh. Sherlock lifts his head and knits his eyebrows together. “What?”  
“Mycroft said brave is the kindest word for stupid.”  
Sherlock scowls. “Mycroft’s an idiot.” He pauses. “You’re not.”  
John is staring at him, bewildered. “What?” Sherlock asks somewhat irritably.  
“You just complimented me twice in less than three minutes.”  
“Fewer than three minutes. And if you had any manners you’d thank me.” He stands, his hands around John’s wrists.  
“Well, you’ll have to pardon me because of my state of shock.” John cranes his neck to look at Sherlock.  
Sherlock gives the wrists a tug. “No, I’m taking you to bed to teach you a thing or two about courtesy.”  
**  
Afterwards, John lies with his head on Sherlock’s chest, and Sherlock has his fingers buried possessively in John’s hair. They’re both wide awake, Sherlock recalling the first moment he saw John. In the midst of all his observations, two contrasting adjectives had stood out from the deductions: fragile and resilient. It’s the way that John is laying now that recalls the two words to his mind; Sherlock wants to wrap his arms around John, protect him, but he also knows that, if Mycroft had not spent a fair amount of money to increase the sturdiness of the flat and a random explosion were to occur, John would not hesitate to shield Sherlock with his own frame.  
Normally he likes to share his observations with John, but all of these thoughts that involve John lately seem to have no words. It’s too much of a vulnerability, which is ludicrous, considering what they have just done in this bed, what they’ve been doing for months now. Sherlock can’t call a single scientific answer to mind to explain it, and it’s infuriating.  
It simply won’t do, so he swallows his pride and begins to carefully trace eight letters on John’s bare skin. John responds with Sherlock’s absolute favorite facial expression, that small smile that is a mix of surprise and the quality of being absolutely chuffed. John shifts to bury his face between Sherlock’s neck and shoulder. “Me too,” he mumbles.  
“Well that’s a relief,” Sherlock replies in his driest tone. “Whatever would I do if I didn’t know that you were in love with yourself?”  
John lifts his head to match Sherlock’s gaze. “Sherlock Holmes, you are the most infuriating man I’ve ever met, and you are the best thing that has ever happened to me.” When John follows up with a long, satisfying kiss, Sherlock allows himself, for the first time in a very long time, to quiet his thoughts and become utterly and irrevocably lost.


End file.
